


Blessed Are They Who Mourn

by LaughWhileCrying



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur is a bird now, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Reincarnation, no beta we die like women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 23:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughWhileCrying/pseuds/LaughWhileCrying
Summary: Arthur Morgan died, relieved that even if he failed so much in his short time on Earth, John succeeded.He closed his eyes on that mountainside, and died.And then he woke up.------AKA the one in which Arthur is reincarnated as a hawk and John can't shake the feeling of being watched





	Blessed Are They Who Mourn

**Author's Note:**

> This is not only the first work I've written in years, it's also 6am and I just banged this out in 5 hours lol. Basically, it's an unbeta'd and unedited mess, so be warned. Enjoy!

Arthur was dead.

It wasn’t the greatest death; his fight with Micah had been brutal and raw. Had he not already been so weak, fighting against his own lungs to breathe while fighting the sloven rat, had Dutch not even intervened, he might have even taken Micah down with him. He would have preferred not dying alone on a mountainside, but he died on his feet, like he’d always wanted. He’d died giving his family - John and Abigail and Jack and Tilly and Sadie - the chance to live, and that’s probably the best death a man like him could’ve hoped for.

Dying hurt, truth be told.

The actual death part was easy, like falling asleep after a long, hard day of work, eyes slipping closed before taking his last rattling breath. But dying was agonizing and slow, though maybe he’d just been feeling the pain from his fight with Micah. Arthur could feel the strength seeping out of him with every passing second. Not just from his arms and legs, but his lungs, his heart, his neck, face, and mind. He could have sworn that he felt his organs slowing down as he’d crawled and propped himself against the cliffside.

You always notice when your heart rate is accelerated. You can feel the pounding, the pressure of the exertion in your chest, the sound of blood pulsing in your ears. It’s much harder to notice when your heart rate is slowing, but when you do - when you realize that all you can feel is the sluggish thud, as faint as a butterfly’s wings - it’s all you can focus on.

Until you don’t even have the energy to care about that anymore, that is.

He died, facing east and watching the sunrise over the horizon of a country that he desperately hoped had room for a few ex-outlaws. As the first color broke through the darkness of the night, he prayed - to God, to Sister Calderón, to anyone who was listening - that the rest of them made it to safety and could start their lives now.

Arthur died, relieved that even if he failed so much in his short time on Earth, John succeeded.

He closed his eyes on that mountainside, and died.

  
And then he woke up.

\---

It was a peculiar feeling, the sensation of being watched.

Even more peculiar was the appearance of the feeling when, for all intents and purposes, you seemed to be alone.

John threw his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it out with his foot. He’d made camp just a half-days ride from his ranch; if he really wanted to push it, he could probably make it home before dark, but the sun was already starting to dip lower in the sky and Rachel had worked hard enough today. She deserved some food and water and a rest and John could be patient when push came to shove.

Except now, as he assembled the kindling and tinder to cook his hunted rabbit on, he was starting to regret the decision.

It was a damn clearing with sparse trees a good fifty yards away on one side and a cliff’s edge on the other! He could see for miles in either direction, would probably notice anyone coming up before they noticed him due to his positioning. He could clearly see that there was no one around, except for him, Rachel, and some damn bird that kept circling high above him, probably looking for some poor mouse or squirrel or something.

He sighed, muttering to himself about paranoia and old age.

He’d felt like this before.

The feeling came and went like waves - not crashing on the shore, but gently pushing and pulling, giving him time to breathe before returning with endless and insouciant strength.

John’d almost expected, after nearly nine years, to be used to the feeling of eyes on him. And yet, here he was, looking over his shoulder and waiting for - well, for what exactly? An old gang member? A Pinkerton? Dutch?

Maybe that was the worst part; no matter how watched he felt, his imagination never supplied a villain to watch out for.

Not to say that he wasn’t concerned about the possibility of his past catching up with him. That was still a very real and worrying possibility. No, he was just worried that they would show up, not that they were currently watching him.

Or maybe the worst part was, something that John would never admit even to himself, that when the wave of being seen crashed over and threatened to drown him? Paranoid and anxious wasn’t exactly what he felt.

Instead he felt.

Well. He felt safe.

Protected.

And John was never quite sure what to make of that, so he did what he did best and ignored it.

The sun had started to set by the time he finished building his fire. The bird - a hawk, maybe? - had long since disappeared to wherever the thing nested or slept or ate its prey.

He hummed, low in his throat. If he could fly, John mused, travel would be simple and Abigail wouldn’t be pissed at him for taking longer than he promised. Again. If he could fly, he wouldn’t need to bother planning for days-long trips, wouldn’t need to bother with a horse.

“No offense, girl,” he said quickly to the grazing mare, who steadfastly ignored him.

John didn’t dote on his horses like some people, but it wouldn’t do to get another female pissed off at him and make this trip even longer tomorrow. Rachel wasn’t too temperamental, but even she had her moods.

Just like her rider, Abigail liked to say.

He roasted the rabbit meat - only nearly charred, thank you - and scarfed it down while still hot. It wasn’t good, but John had never claimed to be a cook. He’d had many years of Abigail’s cooking now and years of Pearson’s before that; if it was edible, that’s all that mattered.

He’d set up a tent, a small, raggedy thing with more patched holes than original fabric, but as he moved from the warmth of the fire to the entrance, ready to sleep through the night, he paused.

He looked up at the sky.

The stars were so bright that night, so clear. Little dots of white light, spilled across the dark backdrop above. The air was cool, but not frigid.

He looked back at Rachel, who had made herself comfortable. She didn’t care about the stars, but a small part of John liked to think she did. That she enjoyed sleeping under their watchful gaze.

He huffed.

He really shouldn’t sleep out in the open; he should have honestly found a better place, a more secure place, to camp if he was being honest.

His gaze drifted back up, letting that peculiar, but oh so familiar, feeling wash over him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel it. Enveloping him, pulling him down while still letting him float.

One night wouldn’t kill him.

He dragged his bedroll out from the tent and placed it next to the fire. He silently wished Abigail and Jack a goodnight as he laid himself down to sleep.

And as he closed his eyes, he resolutely ignored the hoarse caw of a nearby hawk and the shiver that wracked down his spine in response to it.

\--- 

The first thing he realized was that the world was much bigger than he remembered it.

Not just in distance, although from the new vantage available to him he could see that there was far more land and ocean than he ever understood. America, he came to know, was both larger and smaller than he’d been taught.

No, the world - and everything in it - was significantly larger in size than in his memory. Or, rather, the world wasn’t bigger; he was just much smaller than before.

He’d opened his eyes to the sight of a tree trunk that stretched for miles into the sky, looking as if it wouldn’t end until it reached the Heavens. Their leaves and droppings looked to be nearly as large as him.

The second thing he realized was that while humans thought they were the superior species with their technology and writing and clothes and opposable thumbs, stretching your wings and feeling the wind caress your feathers as you soared through the sky was an experience that could never be described in any human language.

He could get close, could describe feeling weightless as if he was made of light, could describe the sound of the wind passing by, the spectacle that was the Earth from way up high. But no human would ever truly understand; how could they?

Arthur had been in high places, had even been in a hot air balloon, but if he could go back in time and try to explain it to his past self? Even he wouldn’t get it.

Arthur never learned how it happened - how his eyes fell on that mountain only to re-open in the bordering woods, down two arms and two legs but up a beak and some feathers.

But sometimes, when he swooped low into the forest, talons sharp and sinking into the hot flesh of his meal, he could see in the corner of his eye, a stag, tall and proud, watching him. Silent. Arthur liked to think he was approving, but he was never quite sure.

Life was simpler with wings.

Much simpler than it was as a human. Humans, Arthur learned, were complicated. Messy and prone to doing unnecessary things that they and everyone around them didn’t wanna do.

As a human, he worried about loyalty, about right and wrong, about society and love and betrayal.

As a bird, he followed what his instincts told him. He flied just to feel the blissful sensation of being in the air, slept when he was tired, and called for other birds like him to flock together and hunt when he was hungry. Unlike the others, Arthur never stuck around too long in groups; they hunted together and then Arthur flew away with his portion. Staying too long caused something deep within his stomach to prick and writhe, so Arthur tried his best to avoid it. He may have been something other than human, but he was still a creature of habit and would much rather be by himself.

Or, well, perhaps not completely by himself.

It didn’t start immediately. Arthur didn’t go looking at first because, well, he hadn’t realized it was a possibility. Hell, it had taken him near a year to come to terms with who he had been and what he was now and how to survive in his new reality.

But now.

Arthur watched Jack, little Jack so grown and tall and strong, move hay alongside his father, sweat streaming down their faces in the burning heat of the summer day. He couldn’t quite smell it, but he could see waves of heat coming from the chimney and hear Abigail’s muttered curses as she banged pots against pans in the kitchen and he knew that she was trying her best to cook up something for her boys. Sometimes, she’d throw the scraps of whatever animal John or Jack had shot off to the side of the house and Arthur would steal it away when the dog turned his nose up at it. He couldn’t tell by taste if Abigail’s cooking was good or bad, but he had an inkling based on how many times he’d also stolen the leftovers of whatever the Marston boys tried to hide along the outside of the property fence.

Although, was it really stealing if no one else wanted it? He’d never even competed with the vultures for it.

He watched the family go about their daily chores from his usual perch atop the highest branch on the tallest tree at the edge of the ranch. They went about their day, tending to the land and the animals and bickering with each other as Arthur preened his feathers and kept vigil over the land and its inhabitants.

John had noticed his presence over the years. Arthur knew he had, because whenever Arthur landed in his usual spot, even if his back was turned, John’s spine straightened ever so slightly. He stood up straight and for a very brief moment, his eyes would shut, eyelashes barely brushing delicate skin, and his lips would part as he took in a quiet but sharp inhale.

And then, in typical John fashion, his eyes would snap open, mouth would shut, and he would continue with what he was doing, ignoring everything.

Sometimes, Arthur wished he still had hands to smack him with.

As it was, he was sorely tempted to peck him with his beak.

John seemed to be the only one though. Jack and Abigail never seemed to notice their feathery guardian, never had the same or even a similar reaction, but Arthur wasn’t too bothered. There were times that Arthur thought maybe, just maybe, Uncle saw him, but it was just as likely that Uncle’s gaze was on a booze-induced hallucination.

Arthur had been surprised to see the old man, but it was a pleasant surprise. And wasn’t that just a surprise in and of itself?

John was almost as old as Arthur had been when he died, now. Jack was nearly as old as he was when Dutch and Hosea first picked him up. Uncle was as old as ever and Abigail was as young and beautiful.

He’d spent a long time watching over them, he mused.

How long did birds like him live?

Truth be told, he hadn’t planned on spending so much time here. He’d meant to check in, to confirm that they were okay, and then move on.

And yet every time he did leave - to fly south for the winter, to hunt, to stretch his wings - he always found himself right back here.  
There was a pull that Arthur couldn’t deny, an invisible rope connecting him to Beecher’s Hope, to John, specifically. He’d tried to resist it once; he deliberately flew in the opposite direction of pull for hours, changing course to avoid wherever the sensation wanted him to go.

All he managed to do was fly in circles like an idiot and scare some poor field mice into thinking they were about to be dinner.

He couldn’t lie and say that he hated watching over them, though. Seeing them go about their day, living and loving and doing everything that he’d hoped for when he sacrificed his life? Seeing John struggling and failing and succeeding but ultimately living and providing for his family?

Perhaps there was a feeling similar to that of flying.

The sound of Abigail’s cursing grew louder in Arthur’s sensitive ears and the smoke leaving the chimney began to take on a darker tint. He figured Abigail was fine, she usually was and she could take care of herself, but Arthur let out a screech and launched himself off his perch, flying over the house in hopes of altering John, Jack, or Uncle to the possible danger. He hoped. All three men could be a bit dense some of the time.

All the time.

“Abigail?” John’s raspy voice called out. There was amusement in there, very thinly masked by the concern. “Keep workin’,” he told Jack. “I’ll go check on your mother.”

“Yes, sir.”

John jogged up the stairs to the house; Arthur could hear the dead-pan teases as he grew closer to Abigail and her scoffs and biting remarks in response. He trilled lightly in amusement and glided without haste to perch back in his tree, content that he did a good job as protector and watchbird.

He landed without a sound on the branch; in this life, he had grace that he’d never hoped or even wanted to possess as a human. Lord, how did he spend so many years so large and clunky and slow? Like a damn bull instead of the small, powerful creature he was now.

If only someone other than John ever bothered to notice him. Someone should pay attention to the coppery tone of his wings, the flecks of white and brown all along his body, and John sure as Hell wasn’t gonna do it.

Bastard.

The sound of laughter and the pounding of John’s shoes on the porch as Abigail chased him back outside woke Uncle up with a start. Jack glanced over with a smile for a moment before pretending he didn’t notice and returning to work. John rolled his eyes at the old man, throwing an obligatory comment about his uselessness his way.

For a moment, John’s eyes drifted up towards the towering tree where Arthur sat and he thought, for only the briefest of seconds, that John would stop and catch sight of him. Look at him without looking away.

But John’s gaze only lingered for a fraction of a second before he ripped them away, focusing back on Jack and the chores that needed to be finished.

Arthur ruffled his feathers a bit. He wasn’t shocked, wasn’t even disappointed to be honest. Because eye contact or not, John knew that he was here. Or at least, he knew that someone (or perhaps something) was there.

As he watched father and son work side by side, Arthur let out another screech.

Partly because he could and partly to warn off other birds or otherwise who had thoughts of entering Beecher’s Hope and causing trouble.

This was his territory. His family.

Any human or animal could just try to take it from him.

\---

John felt watched when he rode into Blackwater for supplies for Abigail.

He felt watched when he took Jack fishing or tried to teach the boy to hunt.

He felt watched when he hunted down Micah alongside Charles and Sadie.

He felt watched not when he proposed again to Abigail but when he stood by her side and became her lawful husband.

He felt watched now, as he stood over the cooling body of the man who once called a father.

Something was watching him and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dutch’s broken body. Couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blood that spilled out, marring the glittering white of the snow underneath their feet. Couldn’t look away from the hole Agent Ross added to Dutch’s head post-mortem.

Distantly, John could hear the call of a hawk. The sound was gut-wrenchingly mournful, a sound John didn’t know that hawks could make. Even though the hawk is circling above head, like a vulture waiting to feast once he turned his back, he could only just hear it.  
Like he was merely remembering the sound from an old dream.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, how much time he spent. Standing there. Staring.

The hawk perched on a rock to the left of him. John didn’t turn, but could see the image in his peripheral vision.

That feeling, that sensation, punched him in the gut, causing him to double over and the breath to leave his lungs.

It felt sour and rotten.

God, he wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.

Safe, he felt. Protected. Reassured.

What the _fuck_ was the point of that?

Where the fuck was that _protection_ for Abigail? For Jack? What _fucking good_ was the feeling that someone was looking out for you if this was your reward?

The congratulations of a rat with a government badge and the deaths of the people he once loved.

John stood, hunched over the body of one Dutch Van Der Linde, and laughed.

It started as a small chuckle, a giggle, over the absurdity of everything he’d just done. Because it was absurd, wasn’t it? Absolutely _insane_. And that absurdity? Was the funniest fucking thing John had ever though of.

He chuckled softly, more of an exhale that grew louder, harder, higher-pitched until he was doubled over with laughter. He laughed and laughed and laughed until tears started falling from his eyes because he was laughing so hard.

He laughed at the fear that Abigail and Jack wouldn’t be at Beecher’s Hope when he returned, at the sight of Dutch’s blood contrasting with the pristine white of the snow, at the image in his mind of Bill’s bloodied body soiling a land he never belonged in, of the hatred in Javier’s eyes as he stared from the back of Ross’ automobile.

He laughed at images of things that hadn't yet come to pass, but still very well could - images of Abigail, of Jack, bloody and cold and laying face down -

“Argh!” he yelled in pain as the stupid hawk landed on his shoulder, talons piercing his skin. The bird screeched in his ear, nearly deafening him, but breaking him out of the hysteria that had gripped him tight. The tears still flowed freely, he couldn’t seem to stop that, but the urge to laugh subsided, leaving him cold and so tired.

And yet the warmth of the sensation prickled at his skin.

The hawk screeched again, although it was less of a screech this time, John admitted, and more of a trill. The hawk pushed his head against John’s. And again when John didn’t react.

John almost started laughing again.

Instead, he lifted a hesitant and shaking hand and ran a single finger down the bird’s back, stroking it with so light a touch it was barely there. The hawk trilled again.

With his other hand, John reached up and wiped the tears away. Thank God, he thought, that no one but this damn bird was there to witness that.

At the same moment, he and the bird both turned to the now cold body on the ground. Ross and the other agent - Archer or something? - simply left him there, content that they had something to write in their report. They didn’t care about burying him, they had just wanted John to do their dirty work so they could pat themselves on the back for it.

John sighed. He couldn’t just leave him there, but he didn’t have a shovel or anything to burying him with.

 _Leave him,_ a voice in his head said. Leave _him, like he tried to leave you all those years ago. Like he left Arthur._

 _It’s what he deserves_.

The voice was strong and John, oh John, had always been weak. Weak with resentment for things he couldn’t change and fear of things that other people could. The voice was strong and John, weak little Johnny Marston, started to turn around and walk away.

Until the hawk screeched once more and dug talons deeper into the flesh of his shoulder, likely drawing blood.

John yelped in pain once more and tried to unsuccessfully shake the damn bird off.

“Go on!” he yelled, suddenly angry. “Go on, get outta here, you stupid animal!”

The bird gave him an unimpressed look and held on.

“What the Hell would you know, huh?” he said. He was not about to be sassed by some stupid bird who shat while it flew. “He don’t deserve a burial; he’s a monster! Was a monster, I guess. You’re a goddamn bird; you don’t know nothing about my life! Get outta here, shoo!”

John succeeded in dislodging the bird, only for it to jump gracefully down from his shoulder and land right next to Du- the body.

The bird turned and gave him a pointed look.

“Fuck off,” John said.

The bird stood silently for a moment. It cocked its head to the side, as if studying John all the way down to his soul. He shivered as the bird stared and ignored the fact that the feeling was extraordinarily familiar. This was just a bird. A stupid, fucking, annoying, bird.

A bird that had turned away from John to stare at the body. A bird that let out another caw, this one not a screech, but hoarse and soft.

Mourning and angry and bitter and sorrowful.

Exactly like John.

John closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. He took a deep breath and held it for a long moment before releasing it in a hard exhale.

“Okay,” he said, feeling utterly exhausted. “Okay.”

The hawk flew back up to his shoulder, this time landing softly and feeling as if it weighed lighter than air. And together they pushed Dutch onto his back and dragged him close to the mountain side.

John still didn’t have a shovel, so instead he and the hawk covered Dutch with a mix of snow and rocks. With any luck at all, it would be enough to keep his corpse from being picked apart by vultures and wolves. He wasn’t sure what would happen when the snow melted, but this was the best they could do for now. He found a few branches, cut a notch into one and slide the other through it, creating a shoddy-looking crucifix. He placed it over the mound of snow, dirt, and rocks, and stepped back.

The hawk jumped back down to the ground once they finished and cawed once again.

The hawk looked back.

Their eyes met and for the briefest of moments, John feels nauseous and unsteady, but safe and.

And proud.

There’s a thought niggling at the back of his mind, one that he’s thought once before but wouldn’t entertain. Couldn’t entertain.

Refused to entertain now.

He shook his head to clear it.

The hawk trilled, almost sounding amused, before spreading his wings and launching himself into the air, leaving John on the ground.

John lowered his gaze from the sky to Dutch’s pitiful gravesite.

“Right,” he said, nodding to himself.

It was time to leave.

His family was waiting.

\--- 

It hadn’t occurred to Arthur to look for his body until Charles brings it up seven years later.

“He’s where he would have wanted to be,” Charles had said to John as they’d walked through the streets of Saint Denis. “Pretty hillside...facing the evening sun.”

John and Arthur both had been delighted to see Charles’ face; Arthur felt mildly guilty for never finding and checking in on the man, but he wasn’t a tracking bird and no other gang member seemed to have the tie to Arthur that John did. Still, seeing Charles alive and more or less okay - even if he had been throwing fights - was terrific and gave him hope that more folks got out alright from that whole mess.

He listened to Charles tell of how he went back, buried him and Miss Grimshaw both, and couldn’t help but feel touched and honored.

Arthur had no delusions about the kind of man he was. He tried - oh he certainly tried hard - to be a decent feller. God knew he hadn’t been a good one, but he’d tried to be a decent one. And while he certainly would have tried to go back for Miss Grimshaw at least - the woman who had been the only reason they’d all survived together for so many years - he wasn’t sure if he deserved the friendship and loyalty of a man like Charles Smith.

But, deserved or not, Charles gave him a grave site. One that John apparently intended to visit sooner rather than later.

As soon as John was able, he saddled his horse and rode off in the direction Charles had pointed him in. John had rode hard, pushing Rachel to go fast, but thankfully not so hard that he risked harming the poor mare. John wasn’t as sweet on his animals as Arthur had been when he was human, but he was respectful, never asking more from a horse that it could conceivably give.

John rode in silence the entire way and Arthur followed behind from the air. He didn’t know where his grave was; he wasn’t even sure that he really wanted to see it.

What would it feel like, seeing a grave and knowing that your body is buried in it? Will he feel nauseous? Angry and hateful and disconsolate at the reminder of the past?

Or worse, would he feel apathetic? Detached as if it happened to someone else.

Arthur often felt the elation at seeing John live and get his life together (after some trial and error that made Arthur want to kill himself all over again), but could a bird feel grief? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Regardless, he wasn’t going for himself.

He was going for John.

The man, Arthur knew, never quite recovered from the loss of the gang, of Dutch, of Arthur. John could easily adapt to many things, but changes to his family had always taken time. Hell, he remembered the first time a new member joined their merry bunch of thieves and murderers, how John refused to speak or even look at anyone for nearly four months until Arthur literally held him upside down and demanded to know what was wrong!  
John still held onto Arthur’s old journal, skimming through the pages and drawings in an almost religious manner. As if he could will Arthur to appear if he tried hard enough.

Well, actually.

Arthur did appear. Just.

John didn’t know that part.

Arthur watched John flinch just slightly when he let out a hoarse screech into the air. Letting John know that he was there, even if the man wasn’t going to respond or show that he understood. Arthur knew he got the message.

It took them less time than anticipated to reach the area where Charles said Arthur was buried. It was still light out, not a hint of color marring the crystal blue of the sky.

It was a beautiful day, really.

No clouds, fresh clear air with the barest hint of a breeze, one that wasn’t too cool or too warm but just right for the temperature of the air. The sun shone brightly from its perch in the sky.

John looked like he wanted to spit at it.

Arthur flew lower to the ground as John slowed Rachel to a trot up the winding mountain path, so hauntingly familiar that Arthur wondered if John heard the echos of the past in his ears as well.

They reached the top of the hill and John pulled Rachel to a stop. Arthur landed softly on a rock behind John when he dismounted and faced the other way. Rachel looked at him and snorted softly. She tossed her head in John’s direction, who hadn’t seemed to notice Rachel’s behavior or Arthur’s arrival.

 _I know,_ Arthur thought. _That’s why I’m here_.

Rachel let out a hard breath and bent her head down to graze as she waited.

John walked forward and stopped. Arthur thought he may have stopped breathing.

Arthur certainly did.

Seeing his grave was...strange. It felt like a punch to the stomach, though it wasn’t hard enough to incapacitate him. Just hard enough to make him freeze for a good couple of minutes.

He waited for the rush of memories, of emotion, to come and hit him, but it never did. After all, Arthur supposed. He did have seven years to come to terms with it.  
It did, however, leave him tired and longing for all of those who are long gone. What happened to all of them, he wondered. What happened to Hosea, Lenny, Sean, and Miss Grimshaw? Hell what happened to Mac, Davey, and Jenny? Did they pass on into Heaven? Or had they been reborn as he had into a life that, in his opinion, suited him far better than his time as a human.

He’d like to think that wherever they ended up, they were happy.

It was a nice wish.

Charles was right about one thing - the grave was exactly where he’d have wanted to be. Even now, he was pleased by the idea of being buried somewhere up high and overlooking the sky and land. That’s the closest a dead man can get to flying.

There were flowers and a grave marker, one Charles must have carved himself.

“Blessed are those who hunger,” it read. “And thirst for righteousness.”

Arthur never deserved the friendship of a man like Charles.

If a bird could cry, Arthur’s eyes would have been misty and hard to see out of.

John still hadn’t moved. Not even a muscle.

Arthur flapped his wings and called out, but John didn’t react. He stood there, holding that damn journal in his hand. Staring.

So Arthur settled on the rock and got comfortable.

They stood there for hours, John lost in his thoughts and likely the distant past. By the time he finally moved, the sun had moved low in the sky. Not quite sunset yet, but dipped below the line of the distant mountains, hiding.

John closed the journal with a snap, startling Arthur after the long silence.

He spoke quietly, in a low, raspy voice: “Guess we’re just about done, my friend.”

Then he shoved the journal back into satchel and turned back towards Rachel.

He turned abruptly, giving Arthur no time to move if that had been his intention (it hadn’t, but still). He turned at caught Arthur’s eye from his low perch on the rock.

It was almost laughable, the look on John’s face. Wide-eyed and slack jawed, like a startled deer. Any other time and Arthur would have teased him, called out mockingly to him and ruffled his feathers.

But John looked like he was two seconds away from crying and even Arthur wasn’t that cruel.

So he called out, the sound scratchy and grating but, hopefully, reassuring as well.

Maybe John didn’t know who he was, maybe he’d never admit it to himself, but Arthur desperately needed him to know one thing.  
That Arthur was there. With him or for him. To support and to protect. To watch over.

Arthur needed him to know that he wasn’t alone.

John closed his mouth with a snap and swallowed audibly. He clenched his jaw against the noticeable wave of emotion that hit him; tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, tears that he visibly fought to keep back.

Arthur called out again and John flinched, hunching in on himself slightly and clenching his fists tight. Rachel bobbed her head and kicked the ground a few times in agitation. She didn’t like seeing her rider in distress.

 _It’s okay, girl_ , Arthur thought. _I got this. Everything’s fine._

And for the first time in the many many times he’d told someone that, he genuinely believed it.

Because John was staring at him with such raw heartbreak and pain, but behind the sharp edges of grief, hope was cautiously peeking out.

Arthur said nothing. He spread his wings and puffed his chest out, putting himself on display.

And John promptly burst into tears.

His sobs were more screams than anything, screams of anger and sorrow that barely made it past his clenched jaw. John fell to his knees crying for probably the first time in his life, and Arthur knew he was mourning for more than just him. He was mourning for everything that Micah and Dutch and Bill and Javier and God and the Pinkertons stole from them. Friends. Family. An entire lifetime.

John sobbed and screamed into his fist, biting down hard and drawing blood. And all the while Arthur cooed and trilled and called out, reminding John the entire time that he was there.

Reminding him that Arthur would watch over him while he was vulnerable.

The sunset painted the sky a brilliant mix of blues, yellows, and oranges when John managed to calm himself down. He had sat himself down on the hard ground at some point, and once again looked up to make eye contact with Arthur. Arthur clicked his beak at him and John chuckled, voice shot from his screams.

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, waving his hand in mock dismissal. His normally gravely voice was wrecked. The words sounded painful. "I’m...I’m alright. I think. Or, at least, I’m gonna be alright.”

He turned away from Arthur and pushed himself off of the ground with a groan. He huffed a derisive laugh. “Well that’s the first and last time I make a fool of myself in front of a damn bird.”

Arthur clicked his beak again.

“Shut up,” John said. “What the Hell would you know?”

Arthur said nothing, turning away to pretend to preen his feathers. John laughed again and the sound made Arthur’s heart feel light and airy. His laughter fell quiet quickly, but John remained in better spirits.

He looked back at the grave one more time before mounting Rachel.

Arthur spread his wings, ready to soar, maybe hunt a bit and explore before returning to Beecher’s Hope, when John’s voice stalled him.

“Hey,” he called out, surprisingly hesitant. “A-are you? I mean, are you…?”

Arthur met his gaze unwaveringly and the two stared in silence for a moment before John shook his head.

“No, I...that’s stupid. I’m bein’ stupid, but what else is new?” he asked with an unconvincing laugh. Arthur would have smiled if he could. Instead, he took flight, hovering above John as he and Rachel started the long trek home.

Arthur would wait until they got home safely before leaving their side.

\--- 

John was dying.

He would be angry, but anger seemed to seep right out of him and pool on the ground like the vivid red blood from his wounds. Anger - and any emotion, really - required far too much energy, energy that he just didn’t have anymore.

He wasn’t exactly surprised when Ross went back on his word. The man was more slippery than any outlaw or crook that he’d ever met - the ones with the government’s blessing usually were in John’s experience.

Uncle was dead, the poor old bastard. John could never repay him for buying Jack just a bit more time.

Oh God, Jack. Abigail.

Grief nearly overtook him at the thought of his wife and son; would Ross go after them next? What would happen to them after John died? They were always stronger than he was, so he had desperate hope that they would be fine on their own. They had to be.

Oh God, they had to be.

It was a strange feeling, dying.

It was agonizing, slow.

He was on his knees, watching Ross light a cigar with nonchalance. John could feel blood pouring into his lungs, could practically taste it with every rattling breath he managed to pull through. He could feel the strength seeping out of him with every passing second. Not just from his arms and legs, but his lungs, his heart, his neck, face, and mind. He could almost feel the pain of his own organs slowing as he stared blankly ahead; until the numbness seeped in.

He fell backwards onto the ground. He heard Ross sigh and he and his men left. The bodies were left to rot in the dirt.

John didn’t realize it before, but now as he laid on his back he could feel his heart rate slowing. Every second it grew more sluggish, more faint - as if a butterfly had become trapped in his chest. It was all he could focus on.

Until a heart-wrenching screech pierced the air.

The stupid bird. That ugly stupid hawk that had always seemed to be there, to follow him, to watch him, swooped down from the air and landed at John’s side. It screeched again, and the sound was more akin to a scream of pain and rage than anything else John’d ever heard from a bird.

And John nearly wept at the sudden wave of family safe warmth when he was so cold.

John let out what he hoped was recognized as a laugh. “Hey Arthur,” he said. His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper. He tried to lift a hand, tried to run a finger down the soft feathers to reassure him, but he didn’t have the strength.

Arthur called out, the sound much quieter but no less grief-filled.

John couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t look at Arthur one last time. At least he wouldn’t die alone, he thought idly. He tried to swallow against the pain and the blood pooling in his throat, but he just ended up coughing.

“Arthur,” he said after nearly a minute of coughing. “Watch out for Abigail and Jack.”

He wanted to say so much more. To thank Arthur for watching over him, over them. For giving him the chance to try to live, even if it all went to shit in the end.

For being by his side all these goddamn years.

Arthur trilled softly.

He knew. He promised.

John didn’t smile, but if he could have, he would have. Because his heart felt so light and free with the relief that his family had a chance. He would die, but they would live and that was more than he could ever ask for.

John closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of Arthur’s soft calls, knowing that they were promises, words of comfort, and reassurances that he wasn’t alone.

John closed his eyes on the ground of his home of eleven years, and died.

  
And then he woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Arthur is a Harris's Hawk. I have no idea what john is idk if he's even a hawk lol. Right now I have it in my mind that they're both Harris's Hawks and hunt together and such because these birds like groups. But idk.  
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


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